‘We should have guarded our rear,’ Drogo said.
Vallon swiped at the ground. ‘The men should have been more alert.’
He crouched over his sword hilt as the searchers straggled back, blowing hard and shaking their heads. When the last of them returned to confirm that the Viking had escaped, Vallon rose with a long sigh and rubbed his itchy brow. Drogo idly kicked the ground. Vallon let his arms flop.
‘We’d better return to camp,’ said Drogo. ‘The other two spies are probably plundering it.’
‘You go. I’ll wait for Wayland.’
The Icelanders were beginning to file away when Vallon spotted movement on the next ridge. ‘Hold it.’
A shadow flickered through black palings. Vallon lost it, then picked it up again on the downslope. Two shadows moving in a soundless glide.
‘It’s Wayland and his dog.’
Vallon waited in the open. Wayland came flogging up the hill. He swallowed one breath straight after the other and glanced in bewilderment at the company. ‘Why are you standing about? The Vikings aren’t far behind me.’
Vallon rasped his hand along his jaw. ‘The ambush has been discovered. The spies saw that we’d left the camp and sent two of their number to raise the alarm. We dealt with one, but the other got through.’
‘No, he didn’t.’
It took a moment to sink in. ‘You killed him?’
‘The dog caught him.’ Wayland shoved Vallon away from the edge. ‘Hide yourselves. They’ll be here any moment.’
Vallon came to his wits. ‘Quick! Back to your positions.’ He dragged Wayland to the ground beside him. ‘Did Raul make contact?’
‘No. He hadn’t reached the camp when I left.’
‘Damn! How many are we facing?’
‘Sixteen.’
Vallon looked for Drogo. He lay propped on his elbows a few yards away. ‘Hear that?’
‘Sixteen of them, fourteen of us. You might regret sending the raiders downriver.’
‘The horses make it even.’
The dog whined. Wayland tensed. ‘There they are. Crossing the ridge.’
Vallon made out a column filing through the trees, winding down from the ridge, disappearing into the dark sink at the bottom of the slope and then emerging again as they climbed towards the ambush. Moonlight glinted on axes and spearpoints.
Vallon gripped Drogo’s arm. ‘Direct your charge at Thorfinn. Take your timing from me. I won’t attack until they’re almost within touching distance. Be patient. Make sure the blood doesn’t rush to Helgi’s head.’
‘I hear. Now let go. The enemy’s almost on us.’
Vallon released his hold and Drogo hurried off.
‘Where do you want me to stand?’ Wayland asked.
‘With the infantry. Aim for Thorfinn. Kill him and you could settle the encounter single-handed. Keep back from the fray and direct your arrows where they’ll inflict the most harm. God spare you.’
Wayland nodded and ran off.
Vallon waited until the Vikings were committed to their path before worming back from the crest. Once he was out of sight he ran at a crouch towards the spruce. His eyes darted around, checking that everybody was concealed. He heard the slurred steps of the approaching Vikings and a muttered exchange. He pushed back into the branches and cleared a gap just wide enough to see through. He felt sick with excitement.
Up over the crest tramped the Viking leader, pale eyes roaming from side to side, breath misting. His axe rested over one shoulder and a sword hung from his hip and there was a shorter sword stuck in his belt. Lop off the serpent’s head, an inner voice urged. Vallon resisted it. He waited with his sword held before his face. His breathing had steadied. Thorfinn Wolfbreath trudged past within twenty feet of him, his helmet dangling from his waist like the trophy head of some alien foe. Vallon counted off the men as they trooped by. ‘ … eight, nine, ten … ’ He closed his eyes and kissed his sword.
‘Charge!’
Helgi’s cry, followed by thudding hooves, a dismayed shout from Drogo and the hiss of a single arrow.
Spitting with fury, Vallon pushed out round the back of the tree. Thorfinn stood unhurt, bellowing to his men. Helgi galloped towards the enemy line, spear levelled, Drogo and the other cavalrymen riding ragged behind him.
‘I’ll murder you,’ Vallon mouthed, hurtling towards the nearest enemy and all his rage directed at Helgi.
The Viking swung round gaping and took Vallon’s sword in his mouth, the impact sounding like a cleaver chopping through a rack of meat. Teeth and blood sprayed. The Viking dropped, clutching his face.
‘At them, men!’ Vallon shouted, his attention on the Viking in front of his first victim. The man swung. Vallon parried, disengaged, countered. His opponent blocked with his shield. Vallon feinted right, feinted left, left again, right, dragging the man off balance, saw the opening and slashed into it. The man dropped his sword and looked down at his arm dangling by a rope of muscle. Vallon leaped back, legs a-straddle, assessing the situation.
A mess. The Icelandic infantry still stumbling into action and Helgi prancing about with his liege men, looking for easy targets. Only Drogo and Fulk were fighting with discipline, riding against the enemy stirrup to stirrup, one hacking to the right the other to the left. Thorfinn stood swinging his axe in great arcs, roaring at his men to form up around him.
Vallon glanced round and saw an Icelander tottering away clutching the shaft of a spear that skewered him through the belly. The warrior who’d killed him avoided Vallon’s blow and darted off to join the group around the chieftain. Vallon dragged away two Icelanders chopping at a fallen Viking.
‘He’s dead, you fools. All of you, form up on me.’
Only seven Icelanders joined him, leaving two of their number dead. He counted five dead Vikings, but the rest had thrown a shield wall around Thorfinn and were holding off the cavalry with their spears.
‘Drogo, you have to break the wall! Back off and charge. This time do it right.’
Drogo cast a desperate look at him, seemed to shake his head, then wheeled away shouting at the others to follow. Twenty yards from the enemy they turned and bunched up. One of the horses was badly injured and slumped to its knees, spilling its rider. The Vikings knew that their position was almost impregnable and roared defiance.
Drogo whirled his sword above his head. ‘Charge!’
Vallon grabbed the nearest Icelander. ‘Follow me,’ he shouted and plunged straight at the enemy.
The cavalry clashed before he reached them. Head and shoulders above his companions, Thorfinn leaned forwards and delivered a mighty blow. One of the horses galloped away with its rider lolling in the saddle.
Then Vallon was eye to eye with the foe. A spear lunged at him and he only just deflected it. He tried to follow up, but the shields closed again and he couldn’t find a way past. Over to his right an Icelander maddened by battle tried to kick his way through. A Viking rammed his shield into his face, darted out and stabbed down, his victim dying with a bubbling scream. Almost in the same moment Thorfinn burst through the wall, his eyes burning with battlelust. His sword thrummed and an Icelander folded over like a cut sapling, his trunk almost severed.
Vallon knew that he’d lost all advantage and so did Drogo. He wrenched his horse away from the melee. ‘It’s no good,’ he shouted. ‘We’ll try to cover your retreat.’
Vallon backed away. ‘Withdraw in close order. Look out for each other.’
He’d retreated only a few yards when one of the Icelanders broke and ran, provoking a rout. Vallon found himself facing the Vikings alone.
‘Flee!’ Drogo shouted.
But Vallon stood his ground. His strategy had failed. This was his doom. He watched the Vikings, heard their exultant cries, saw them swell and surge towards him.
Drogo galloped across his line of sight, cutting down with savage precision. A gap opened in the Viking line. Through it ran another opponent.
Vallon adjusted his swo
rd grip, his face an ugly snarl. ‘Come and join me in hell.’
Six feet away his attacker stumbled and fell forward, an arrow wagging in his back. He struggled upright and twitched as another arrow thwocked into him.
‘Run!’ someone shouted, and Vallon glimpsed Wayland bending his bow for another shot.
Vallon fled after the Icelanders, the Vikings chasing in a screaming pack. Thorfinn’s shout shivered the forest. His men stopped. Through the trees Vallon saw the warlord shake his axe above his head. His men left off their pursuit and ran to join him.
Vallon spotted Drogo. ‘They’re after our stores. Round up the Icelanders.’
Drogo spurred his maddened steed towards him. ‘Impossible. The nearest is half a mile away and still running.’
‘We would have routed them if you’d kept Helgi in check. Why didn’t you follow my orders?’
‘Don’t blame me for your failure. It was lack of numbers that cost us victory.’
Vallon swore and staggered after the enemy. They were gone, the ridge empty. Vallon stood alone surveying his defeat when the distant blast of a horn rose up over the forest. It came again, drawn out and desperate. Vallon turned. For a moment everyone stood suspended, taking in the message signalled by the horn.
A roar from ahead and the chieftain came lumbering back. Vallon was standing in his path and didn’t wait to contest it. He sprinted into the trees. The Vikings raced past and disappeared over the skyline.
Drogo spurred towards Vallon. ‘Does that mean the German found the ship?’
Vallon folded over, fighting for breath. ‘What else?’
The horn was still blaring. Vallon pulled himself upright and turned to survey the slaughter. Moonlight was giving way to grey dawn. Steam wafted from the wounds of the littered dead. Vallon found the Viking whose arm he’d all but severed writhing around the useless limb. Vallon reversed the grip on his sword and raised it above the man’s chest. The man fell still and their eyes met, staring down opposite ends of a corridor that each must travel at the allotted time. Vallon brought the blade down and the Viking convulsed and then relaxed, stretching out one updrawn leg as if falling into slumber.
Drogo rode among the dead, taking stock.
‘What’s the count?’ Vallon called.
Drogo looked over his shoulder. ‘I make it six of them and five of us.’
‘Don’t forget the two scouts we killed.’
‘There may be more dead on our side. Helgi’s missing. He took a bad hit.’
Vallon remembered the rider swaying on the runaway horse. He pointed. ‘His horse bolted in that direction.’
Fulk went in search. Drogo dismounted and wiped the blade of his sword with a handful of pine needles. He glanced at Vallon, shook his head and rammed his sword into its scabbard.
Vallon wandered away and faced the rising light. He filled his lungs with resin-scented air, astonished to be alive.
One of the Icelanders trotted out of the trees and called out.
‘They’ve found Helgi.’
His horse had carried him a long way before he toppled out of the saddle. A circle of Icelanders surrounded him. He lay on his side with his back against the trunk of a fallen birch. His face was as white as clay, his eyes blank, blood dribbling from one corner of his greying mouth. Vallon began to crouch beside him, but Drogo pulled him back.
‘Your face is the last thing he’d want to see.’
Drogo knelt and lifted Helgi’s limp arm from his chest. Vallon grimaced. Thorfinn’s axe had inflicted appalling damage. It had struck under his armpit and sliced diagonally through his torso, exposing the barely beating heart in its broken cage, cutting through entrails, releasing a fetid liquor from the torn bowels. Drogo took Helgi’s hand.
Vallon looked at the Icelanders. ‘Have you sent for his sister?’
‘His spirit will have flown long before she gets here.’
Vallon sat down on the dead tree and mouthed along to Drogo’s prayer. ‘Gloria patri et filio et spiritu sancto … ’
When he looked again, proud and handsome Helgi was quit of this world. Vallon took no satisfaction in his death; he’d been a nuisance, not a foe. Vallon walked away and looked across the river. A fine day in the dawning, sunlight dappling the trees, splashes of gold among the conifers. A woodpecker jarred in the distance.
A shout went up. Someone else called out and by the time Vallon had dragged himself back to the ridge a chorus of excited cries rang through the forest. The sight that greeted him stopped his throat. From the direction of the Viking camp a column of sooty smoke rolled into the sky.
He shot a grin at Drogo. ‘Not such a crackpot plan.’
Drogo gave the gusty laugh of a professional gambler beaten by the most improbable of flukes. ‘One day your luck will run out and I’ll be waiting.’
‘Luck favours the bold.’
‘Try telling that to Helgi’s sister.’
Vallon sobered. ‘You’d better break the news to her.’
Drogo nodded and mounted. Wayland was standing near them and when Drogo turned his horse, their eyes met. Drogo looked back at Vallon and gave an odd smile, then he rode away.
The Icelanders bore their fallen back to camp, leaving the slain Vikings stripped of their arms to be burned by their companions or abandoned to wolves and gore-crows. When the field was empty, Vallon and Wayland descended to the riverbank to await Raul’s return. The falconer sat stroking his dog and staring across to the opposite bank. Watching him, Vallon thought that he’d be proud to have him for a son.
‘You’re a born warrior,’ he said. ‘Even though I was shaped for war from childhood, you’ve killed more men than I had at your age.’
‘I don’t take any pleasure in it.’
‘I’m surprised. You told me that your grandfather was a Viking and would choose no other employment. You seemed proud of his exploits.’
‘They were stories he told me while he was tending his vegetable plot.’ Wayland gave Vallon a quick look. ‘Do you take pleasure in killing?’
Vallon thought about it. ‘I take satisfaction in the defeat of my enemies. The world’s a dangerous place. Life’s a vicious game. Your falcons know that.’
Wayland gave a scornful laugh. ‘If you had lived among the beasts, you’d know that they kill out of necessity. Only men treat death as a sport.’
‘I don’t make war for sport.’
‘Why then? Did you believe that the rulers whose armies you led waged war to make the world a better place?’
Vallon breathed in until his lungs pressed against his ribs. Two years ago, if a peasant had dared ask such a question, he would have had him flogged to death and forgotten his existence by next morning.
Wayland was watching him. ‘You don’t answer.’
Vallon’s response rose in his throat but he couldn’t give voice to it. I made this journey to atone for a mortal sin and swore that I wouldn’t take life except in defence of my own or my company. Six months later and I’ve lost count of the men who’ve died by my hand. And there’ll be more.
He smiled. ‘I fight because that’s all I’m good for.’ He squeezed Wayland’s arm. ‘Off you go. Syth will be anxious for you.’
Wayland stood.
Vallon squinted up. ‘Before Drogo left, you exchanged a look. As if you shared a secret.’
‘What sort of secret would I share with Drogo?’
The oblique light left Wayland’s face in shadow. Vallon nodded. ‘I must have fancied it. Don’t keep Syth waiting.’
When Wayland had gone, Vallon linked hands behind his head and stared at the sky. A line of geese flew upriver with their wings almost touching, the formation so precise. Soon they’d be going south, taking only a few days to make a passage that Shearwater wouldn’t complete in a month. Winter would soon be on them. No food. The Icelandic skippers had told Raul that rounding the North Cape at this season might be impossible. So many things to worry about and yet his thoughts were so fickle that he found the
m turning towards Caitlin.
The boat appeared out of spangled reflections. Vallon stood and shaded his eyes. Six men had set off and only five were returning. He recognised Raul’s squat form and prayed that the missing man wasn’t Hero or Richard. He walked to the tip of the bar and hailed the raiders. He gave thanks to God when he picked out Hero and Richard’s features. A pang of remorse as he realised that the missing man was one of the Icelanders — a man whose name he’d forgotten and whose face he couldn’t recall.
As the boat rowed closer, Vallon saw that Raul’s beard had been burned to a frizzy mat and his eyebrows scorched to black speckles. Vallon helped him ashore.
‘We saw the smoke. You saved the day.’
Raul stepped past him in a stink of burned hair. He threw himself down against a tree and plucked at his nitty brow with broiled hands. ‘Didn’t your ambush succeed?’
‘We didn’t hurt the enemy as much as I’d hoped. Tell me about your own action.’
Raul waved at Hero and shut his eyes.
Hero and Richard dumped themselves down beside Raul. They looked tired but surprisingly collected. The two surviving Icelanders joined them.
‘The night didn’t begin well,’ said Hero. ‘It was so dark that we lost all sense of place. The current kept pushing us into the bank. Eventually, from the sheer passage of time, we decided that we must have gone past the bend, but we couldn’t locate the Viking camp. Insects were eating us alive. In despair we rowed for the shore with no more ambition than to make our way back as soon as we could see what we were doing.’
‘We cursed you,’ Richard said.
‘You’re not the only ones. On with your tale.’
‘After a flurry of rain, the clouds parted and the moon showed itself. We worked out that we were below the camp.’ Hero touched one of the Icelanders. Vallon recognised him as the youth who’d jumped aboard Shearwater ahead of the womenfolk. ‘Rorik went up the bank in search of the Vikings. He wasn’t gone long. Their camp was around the next point, no more than an arrow flight from our hiding place. Rorik arrived as the Vikings were filing out.’
Hawk Quest Page 43
